


Trusting

by Amber



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comic)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-11
Updated: 2007-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories within memories, delusions within delusions. Andrew finds out what happened to Warren. | Warren interrupts his daydreams: "Are you with me?" / Andrew knows he doesn't just mean here, and now. "Always," he says, snuggling into the familiar curve of Warren's neck, breath and eyelashes fluttering against his skin. One hand slides continentally slowly under the bedcovers, tracing fractal patterns on Warren's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trusting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Caitlin. Spoilers for early S8 comics, specifically revelations re: Warren Mears.

"...And he even bought me flowers. It is the sweetest thing, you would not believe." Sometimes Marco reminds Andrew of Jonathan — but without the bitterness, and with more of an Antonio Sebatio Junior kind of feel to him.

It's an ordinary Italian Sunday for Andrew. Mostly he spends it tidying up the apartment, throwing out the gelato cups and picking up after his Slayers. Sometimes he plays a video game or two. Right now he has the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he shakes food over the tank for Cat, who's getting pretty big now. Andrew doesn't know how big Mbuna fish get, but it might be time for him to get a new home.

"So what's going on with you?" he asks Satsu. Sundays are also report day — sometimes it's Xander, sometimes one of the Slayers. He likes the Japanese Slayer — more than once Andrew's racked up a phonebill chatting long-distance about _Utena_ or the latest volume of _Sailor Moon_ with her.

"Oh it's all action here," she says. "We're still being bothered by those Twilight guys. Turns out Amy had a friend — he almost lobotomized Willow. But Buffy saved the day." The respect in her voice always seems a touch left of platonic but hey, Andrew's no hypocrite, it's fine with him.

"As always," he says. It never really surprised him that Amy turned out to be cracked - she'd dated his brother for a while, long ago when he was a different person. "Was it a warlock?"

"Kinda. Apparently he's some guy who fucked with Buffy back in Sunnydale. He's more into the technology side of things, though, Xander said he had some freaky laser cannon. He's got a weapons lab, too... but it's cool, we'll get him. How hard can it be to track down a guy with no skin?"

Andrew freezes. It couldn't— "I'm sorry, what?"

"Yeah, Amy's new boyfriend's this freak with no skin. Thanks to Willow, apparently, back when she was all Sephiroth. I don't know the full deets, but I guess he's getting his revenge on..."

There's a wet splash. Cat swims slowly towards the can of dried shrimp invading his home, but Andrew doesn't notice. He sinks down to the floor in what feels like slow motion, digging his fingers into the carpet, suddenly feeling every inch of the earth's spin. "Is Xander there?" he asks hoarsely.

"Uh, he's busy at the moment, there's this thing in England... are you okay? You sound kinda-"

"I have to go," Andrew says, and hangs up.

The phone rings a few more times that evening, but Andrew ignores it. His face presses hard into his pillow. This isn't anger, isn't fear. Mostly he just tries to keep breathing. It's harder to remember how every second. All he seems to have are memories, and this overwhelming feeling of being lied to but with no-one, nothing to blame.

\--

The bathroom smells like urine and loneliness. The ride they'd hitched left them at the truck stop over an hour ago and there hasn't been a single car yet. Jonathan's somewhere inside the empty cafe, maybe talking to the bored-looking waitress, maybe not. Andrew doesn't really know with Jonathan any more. He got so used to Warren telling him what he was seeing that it's been a while since he looked properly.

Warren. Andrew coughs again, the bile burning the back of his throat. _She killed him_. He can't stop hearing it, Anya's matter-of-fact voice. _She killed him_. It hadn't sunk in until now.

Five hours of panic and running and suddenly they were in the middle of nowhere, the rain making everything quiet and real. Andrew had taken two bites of his bagel and excused himself, pushing the door open calmly, running when he was out of sight. Jonathan hasn't checked on him since. He's probably still mad.

Andrew dry-retches. There's nothing left in him now except misery and loneliness. Maybe there never will be again. It had never really occurred to him before what the fluttering in his heart had meant, how deeply he had fallen for his best friend. The bastard. The stupid goddamn bastard.

No. That wasn't fair. Warren had been... unwell. Andrew had known that ever since the wet smack of the bottle against Katrina's head, or maybe before that with the Invisibility Ray set to kill. Maybe even all his life. Andrew was the stupid one.

It was still so vivid in his mind, and every time he pictures it he hurts inside. At the same time, the memory is like a treasure which he can hold close; his precious. It's killing him, but like his old Transformers collection, he can't throw it away.

\--

In the darkness, Andrew can be anyone he wants to be.

Maybe that's why it's easier to ask all the questions that elude him in the day, fall away into Warren's dark eyes, Warren's raised eyebrow, Warren's slight hint of a sneer when Andrew starts trying to get in on the actual planning.

"Warren," Andrew says. He loves saying his friend's name, tasting it in his mouth.

More importantly, he loves the way Warren says his in return. "Andrew?" Someone who didn't know Warren might think he sounded annoyed, but Andrew hears the tenderness in his voice.

"What if something goes wrong?"

The hand on Andrew's cheek slides around, presses against his lips. Andrew's mouth opens the tiniest bit, lapping at Warren's palm. He's growing more confidence as he explores his sexuality, though he trembles when the hand is pulled away.

"Nothing will go wrong. You gotta trust me, okay?" Warren feels like electricity against him - tomorrow's the big day, when they blow this popsicle stand together once and for all. Andrew thinks that maybe he'd like to go to Europe — they haven't even really made any definitive plans, but St Tropez sounds nice... or London has Kawaiicon coming up. Warren interrupts his daydreams: "Are you with me?"

Andrew knows he doesn't just mean here, and now. "Always," he says, snuggling into the familiar curve of Warren's neck, breath and eyelashes fluttering against his skin. One hand slides continentally slowly under the bedcovers, tracing fractal patterns on Warren's side. "And I do trust you," he adds, the anxiety welling up again, "But I mean, there's stuff outside your control."

Warren is silent, and Andrew wishes he could see more of his expression that just shadows. It was a dumb thing to say — Warren doesn't like being reminded of that. "I just mean," he tries to cover. "What if, like... Jonathan..."

"Sparky's well in hand, don't you worry about that." Andrew has an awful vision of Warren trying to _seduce_ Jonathan, and he cringes. Warren reacts by stroking a hand through his hair. "What, you afraid he's gonna die or something? Look, he'll be fine. He needs to get away as bad as we do right now." Warren's tone changes. "Or do you want him to come with us, Andrew? You know he wouldn't approve of us, of our little _thing_."

"No, no, it's not that," whispers Andrew. Up until now he kinda had been hoping that maybe, once they reached the airport, they'd all end up on the same plane... then decide to share a hotel room... maybe. But when Warren puts it like that. "I love you," he says in a small voice. It's the first time he's spoken it out loud, and when his brain catches up with his mouth he freezes.

The hand in his hair keeps moving, though, and even if Warren's quiet now Andrew's glad he's said it. He doesn't know why, but the ominous feeling haunts him, weaving in and out of his dreams and tinging every day with a hint of grey. "I do," he says again, wanting a reaction this time. "I love you so much, Warren, god. I don't know what I'd even do if something um. Something happened to separate us..."

"I know," says Warren. His voice makes Andrew shiver. "But I'll always come for you, you should know that. Stop thinking these stupid thoughts and go to sleep, okay? We've got a whole lot ahead of us." The anticipation lies heavy over both of them. "One more night and we can go anywhere, do anything."

"Be anyone," whispers Andrew sleepily, and his breathing deepen as the gentle stroking lulls him into sleep.

\--

Another sob chokes its way past his lips, and Andrew tries to wipe off his face on harsh, unbleached toilet paper. It sticks to his fingers and he shudders — this entire situation is so unclean, and it's making him antsy.

The awful taste in his mouth, salt mixed with vomit, brings back memories of days at the beach with Tucker, being held under the waves until his lungs filled with water. Being hated just for existing, just for being five years old and _there_, touching Tucker's things, sleeping in his room. Afterwards he'd slap Andrew until he was throwing up all his misery and confusion onto the sand.

"He was drowning, Auntie," his brother's voice echoes in his ears. "I rescued him."

There's no-one here to rescue him as he drowns now.

The white tiles are slippery, but Andrew manages to pull himself to his feet and he wobbles there for a moment. In the cracked and dirty mirror his face is so pale, washed out by the harsh fluorescent lighting. There are dark circles under his eyes and he splashes his face a little, trying to wash them away.

When he glances back up, Warren is standing behind him.

"Hey there, Andy," he says silkenly, and Andrew thinks; this is what it's like to go insane. He whirls around and almost slips on the wet floor, but Warren really is standing there. "You're alive," he breathes, joy thrumming through his heart and pooling in his eyes.

"Nope, still dead." Warren stretches one arm forward and runs a parody of a caress down Andrew's cheek. Andrew can't feel a thing, but he leans into it anyway.

"How...?" Even with his eyes closed Andrew can smell the expensive cologne Warren had been wearing during that last trip to the Bronze, the hint of his hair gel, the underlying musk that Andrew associated with stolen kisses and long nights of D&amp;D.

"You gotta trust me, okay," Warren says. "I need your help." The words seem so alien, tumbling from Warren's mouth, but Andrew's too filled with hope and wonder to care.

"What do you need me to do?" he asks.

\--

In the lounge room, Frankie's watching some Italian soap opera, the one with the fat mother. She probably doesn't even realize he's home. Andrew ran out of tears about an hour ago and is just lying on his back, staring at the _Space Odyssey_ poster on his ceiling. His chest hurts.

What would he do if Warren showed up at the door? He's been stuck on this question for a while now. Go to let in a Slayer, find — what? His skinless ex-boyfriend? If that's even the right word, god. Words have always fit Warren as uncomfortably as his skin seemed to. He was beyond all that.

Nothing seems to fit in Andrew's brain. The idea of Warren with a weapons lab, going after Buffy again, it's too big to fit in his head.

He focusses on the little details. Warren and Amy. They'd make a good pair, Andrew thinks, but that doesn't help the pain. He imagines stabbing Amy a little bit, and it doesn't even really bother him that the last time he had these creeping little dark thoughts it had been in Sunnydale. Xander had told him it was the Hellmouth. His therapist had said it was a product of his childhood. Andrew knows it's because he's wrong inside, sick in the head. That's why he and Warren were so good together.

"I'm different now," he says, trying to convince himself. He has a Slayer (try forty, but Andrew definitely plays favorites) and he should go out there, and take her report.

He swings out of bed and into the loungeroom, and freezes at the knock at the door. Instantaneously the scenario flashes through his head: Warren (who looks like he always did because Andrew can't even imagine - or, he can, but it's too awful for words) takes him away. They fly to America, holding hands on the plane. And when Warren asks him to kill Buffy, then what?

Francesca opens the door - it's just one of her friends, another Slayer. "I'm going out, okay Andrew?" she tells him, barely glancing over. "Satsu called, said I should try and be pretty visible." The other girl looks at him with concern, but Andrew goes back into his room.

It doesn't take long before he dials Marco's number.

"I'm not ready for a commitment," he hears himself say. "No, last night was great! It's been fun. I just... I don't think we should see each other for a while, okay? I'm sorry."

When he hangs up, he doesn't cry, just sits on the bed, waiting for another knock. This time, this time will be different. He's just gotta trust, gotta believe. This time Warren will come for him.


End file.
